


Witcher's Education

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, F/M, Gentle Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Submission, Object Penetration, Pegging, Power Dynamics, Punishment, Service Submission, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Switching, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Whipping, asking for punishment, blood mention, mistress yennefer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23777515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier are in a dom/sub relationship. One day, when Jaskier has a strange guest over, Geralt learns that everyone can benefit from submission sometimesaka, Jaskier is a switch and Yennefer is the only one that can drop him. Yennefer cares way more for these idiots than she should, and helps them get back together.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	1. Protecting Master

A crack.

A stifled groan.

A few taunting words, and a victorious laugh.

These sounds rang out from the dungeon, and Geralt stood paralyzed outside the door, afraid to enter. His Master had said to not disturb him when his guest came over, but Geralt has finished all his chores, even the extra tasks that his Master uses for punishments.

Geralt quickly recounts the list his master left for him.  
Roach is stabled. The saddle bags are filled. His armor is clean.His weapons are sharpened. Master’s lute is clean and put away.. Dinner is cooking. Kindling is chopped.

There's-  
Geralt opens his mouth for a second, attempting to convince himself of another task he has, but it quickly passes, and there’s nothing else the witcher can think to do but wait for his bard. He kneels by the dungeon door, head down, and hands interlaced on his neck. He kneels, he breathes slowly, and he waits.

He’s almost sad as he meditates, not jealous or angry, just sad. Neglected, like a barmaid scorned. Although, that is how Jaskier treats his other lovers. He banishes the thought, realizing that it’s unproductive. He shifts, sitting softly again, and starts to time the seconds by the sounds coming from the dungeon.

A crack, a slap, a shout, more laughter. It’s not the bard’s laughter, it's higher, more throaty, a woman? A submissive woman? Laughing in the middle of a punishment session with his master? It’s all too tempting to look through the door, and Geralt moves the tiniest bit closer, hoping just to peek between the boards--

But then, Geralt hears a scream, his Master’s scream. A most peculiar sound to his ears.

“No! No, No PLEASE!--”

The witcher is standing, running, and already through the door, and he did come _through_ the door, wood splinters into the dark room, and all three parties hear a clang of the iron door handle on the floor as each tries to comprehend what they see.

There is Geralt, wearing a collar, but assuming a most indignant position that would never be awarded to a slave, he is upright, fists clenched tightly, ready to fight for his master. Everything about his body is taut, and every muscle strains, it's about 70% genuine adrenaline and 30% peacocking, hoping to scare the threat by his existence alone.

In the center of the room, on his knees, is his master, looking quite confused, and rather disappointed in his pet. His hands are behind him, tied and unusable, but the stare he gives Geralt communicates plenty. Jaskier shifts in his restraints for a moment, struggling between headspaces. Certainly his bloody back isn’t helping him be dominant. When his eyes finally become clear, he gives a pitiful look to the woman standing above him, they both know he needs to deal with his witcher, the question is will she allow it.

The woman puzzles Geralt, and for more reasons than her novelty. She isn’t human, she smells of magic and sex. She is outrageously opulent, and even as she stands mostly nude, her attentiveness to detail and attraction to finer things is seen in her hair, her nails, her too-red lips. She is obviously a dominant, but something about the way she handles the man in front of her leaves Geralt wondering if she feels pleasure from punishing him or if she’s playing a game. She pauses, considering the room, and playing with the whip she holds, weaving it between her fingers. Then, breathing out words that Geralt can’t understand, she smiles.

Jaskier flicks his eyes again to the woman, smiles, and nods. Clearly they have something planned for the new addition in the room. Jaskier shifts his hands again and claps loudly, Geralt drops to his knees, he knows better than to disobey orders, even when his master is tied on the floor.

“Well now, Witcher.” The soft voice of the bard floats through the air, and Geralt has to fight from making eye contact. “Care to explain yourself?”


	2. Helping Master

“Forgive me sir,” Geralt is breathless as he speaks, it's fear, uncommon and unwelcome. “I thought you might be in danger. I heard you beg.” The response comes quickly, and it’s more words than the witcher has ever strung together so quickly, subspace or not.

“And now, Pet?” his master croons, slowly pushing himself upright. Jaskier comes closer to Geralt, only a head above him if one was generous, but it is enough for his slave to feel his breath, to feel small, to submit. “What do you think now that you’re here?”

It was a test, and Geralt almost laughed at the sheer inevitability of his punishment. He forced his neck to remain parallel with the floor and tried to still his thoughts. He tried to find the right answer, or at least something mildly respectful to offer, but sarcastic replies echoed in his head

_ I think you look good on your knees, sir _

_ I think you’ve been holding out on me. _

_ I think your back…  _

“Your back” Geralt chokes suddenly, and both the men are flustered for a moment. It was an all-consuming thought, and wasn’t fully filtered. “Are you badly hurt? Can- you, your- red?” He’s lost, stumbling to catch his brain with his mouth. His master is a priority, more than manners, more than rules, more than

**_“Witcher,_ ** ” it’s soft, tender, more than Geralt deserves, and his master leans chest against the slave’s bowed head. ”my Witcher, look at me, sweet boy.”

A shudder runs down Geralt’s spine as he straightens to meet his master’s gaze.

“Sir?”

“I’m green, pet. Very green. Was the entire time. What scared you?”

“I’ve never heard you beg like that before, sir. I thought you were safewording.”

“Yen?” Jaskier calls the woman over, she walks purposefully but silently, trying not to draw too much of Geralt’s attention as she unties the bard’s hands. She knows this is about them, not her. 

“Thank you.” Jaskier flexes his hands before gracefully cradling the sub’s face again. “When Yennefer and I play, I allow her to take control completely, I still have my safewords, but it’s therapeutic to plead when you know there’s no relief.”

The Witcher understands the feeling, the need for release. He relaxes slowly into his master’s hands, pliant, capable, safe. “I understand. You are okay, though.” An incomplete question, just a need for assurance.

“Very.”

It’s a tender moment, a half hug of two crouched bodies in the candlelight, but Geralt can’t help but remember that they are not alone. He flicks his eyes to the woman, Yennefer, as he knows now. She seems content, drinking in the energy the men have created between themselves. She thrives on this, sex, power, and she knows the slave’s devotion will be amazing to exploit.

“You’ve played before?” A small question from deep inside Geralt. Not hurt, not jealous, just wanting assurance. “You two, together?” It’s a strange thing to consider, that his master’s been on his knees before.

“Many times, Witcher, but only before you.” Yennefer finally speaks, grabbing Jaskier by his hair as she does so. Geralt can’t tell if that comment is at his expense, is she assuring him? Does she wish they were still alone?

“What do you think, little prince? Are your slave’s fears sufficiently assuaged?” She’s obviously ready to continue, and her lips form the words carefully as she lowers herself to nibble the bard’s ear. She’s not impatient, and if she needed to she could continue to comfort the witcher, but Jaskier’s subspace is valuable, it's too sexy a thing to waste.

“What say you, Witcher? Give me a color, pet.” Jaskier moans slightly as his headspaces blur again, he wants to submit, and in a strange twist, he needs Geralt’s permission.

Geralt realizes that his master has a need, he wants to help, he has a task that he can reasonably complete. Simple slave training takes over, a wave of comfort and peace slides over him. He has a task, a clear role to fill. “Green sir.” It feels good to say, the words jump out of his mouth readily, sparking pride. 

Jaskier notices the quick response, how eager his pet is to please.  _ Fuck. This should be good.  _

“Green, Yen.” 

Yennefer stands, humming her approval softly. She pulls Jaskier’s wrists above his head, and summons the rope to secure them. 

“Kneel up, little prince, let your pet see you.” 

Jaskier obeys, he is open, waiting, wanting. A mess of straight fine lines, stretched out for whoever will take him. 

He looks like a doll. Usable. Fuckable.

“Geralt.” He’s surprised the woman knows his name, “I’m going to continue my whipping. You will be there to ground him, but you may not interfere with my plan. Understood?”

“Yes.” He’s not as readily verbose with Yennefer, if it’s fear or simply discomfort, he cannot say.

“Witcher,” she’s stunning even when she lets out a fake dramatic gasp. “You forget yourself, I’m your mistress tonight.”

“Yes mistress.” He quickly amends “thank you, mistress.”

“Of course, Geralt. Now,” the whip snaps and Jaskier stiffens, “to deal with the bratty prince.”


	3. Encouraging Master

The strokes from the whip aren’t cruel, and Geralt feels increasingly embarrassed for judging his master’s play by noises alone. He knows Jaskier has always been vocal, and as the recipient of a whipping or two in his time, the Witcher understands that the strokes don’t actually deserve the pleas and shouts they elicit. 

In a strange way, he sees the beauty in his master even now. All red, raw, and waiting for the fast strokes that rain down. He needs this, wants this, and Geralt is determined to help. 

He worships his master as the strokes ring out, loud noises echoing through the now open dungeon, the whip cracks sound like snare drums, and the groans of the bard punctuate the beats. Beautiful noise, full of feeling, bleeding out into the air around the three, they are together in heartbeat, together in mind. 

Geralt worships the music, worships the creators, hisses words of encouragement, of approval, praise and love drip from his lips. It’s too much and not enough, nothing that any of them deserve, but it will also never be accurate, emotional enough, real enough. 

No words the bard or even the most eloquent of poets could write would ever describe the raw moments they experience there, in the middle of a cold floor, while two men huddle together under a woman and a severe piece of leather.

“Yes sir, so pretty like this, you’re being so good for mistress, sir.” He’s aware his voice is awkward and harsh, and the words aren’t completely right, but it doesn’t matter, he wants to help. Wants to continue. He thinks the increased moans Jaskier makes in response serve as affirmation. 

Slowly, Yennefer begins the cool down, leaving longer between strokes, pausing for kisses, whispers, massaging the abused flesh of her prince. He’s dropped, he’s primed now, and she’s got two men who are hard and ready to serve. She runs her fingernails cruelly over his worst marks, she knows what he needs, she knows just how much he needs to break. She feels the heat radiating off of the young man’s back, and it’s powerfully arousing. There’s a sinking feeling in the mage’s chest as she considers her trophy, she’s proud of him, of course, but she fears for him. She wasn’t aware the witcher was this important to him, and she’s worried he’ll break his heart. 

Mages were just as inhuman as witchers, though, so she settled for them trusting each other.

“That’s all, little one” she breaths in the bard’s ear. “Just pleasure now.” She unties his wrists but he holds them in their position, and Yennefer genuinely smiles, not the sexy smirk she wears as a mask, but joy from the fact that she no longer needs magic to control her songbird.

“Just pleasure, mistress,” Jaskier sighs and relaxes, she coaxes his arms down to his thighs, and now both men are kneeling in neutral position. She ponders a moment, thinking back on the words she shared with Jaskier when Geralt burst into the room. 

_Can I fuck him for this?_ She had whispered with charmed speech only Jaskier could understand. She knew the Witcher had enhanced hearing, that it would drive him wild to be humiliated by losing his senses. Even in a moment of panic, she was evaluating how best to degrade a sub.

_Only if I get a turn._ The slave’s answer had been music to her, she hopes he wouldn’t go back on his words 

“Okay, boys.” They both angle slightly to face her, “who wants to worship me?”

Geralt springs up towards her with an enthusiasm that quite surprises both of them. He starts sloppily kissing her legs, working quickly upwards, and leaving a trail of wetness against the smooth bronze skin. Yennefer notes that the nickname ‘pet’ rather suits the witcher, as he aims to please without considering protocol. He’s not quite a puppy, though, more like a--

“You beast!” Jaskier spits at the man beside him “slow down, witcher! You’ll be of no use if you’re spent before we get our hands on you.” Jaskier approached his Mistress softly, humbly, looking up with a penitent gaze for approval as he slowly massages her feet with his tongue, small, concentric circles engulfing her toes, her ankle, and her unseemly high arches.

“Jaskier” she warns, trying to control what could have come out as a moan. She feels the breath of the bard hitch, he withdraws his tongue for a moment, awaiting instruction. “You’re not in a place to give orders right now.”

Still, the slave has a point, and she kicks the Geralt off with a flick of her leg, not harsh, just sending a message. She extends the other leg fully, allowing Jaskier to continue working the length of it as she backs up, seeking to recline on the bed. Once seated, she beckons Jaskier, who kneels, straddling her legs. She plants a kiss on the soft curls that have fallen to the bard’s forehead, and smiles as she notices her lipstick stain lingering. 

“Are you ready for me, little one?” She taunts, bringing a fingernail to scratch his chin. She looks into the piercing blue eyes before her, looking for any sign of resistance, but she only sees love, sex, submission, desire.

If this is what he wants, she will do her best to break him.

“Always, mistress.” The bard grins from ear to ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more smut to come! I have a fair amount of the next bit written already, just trying to make this as cohesive as possible. Thanks to everyone who leaves Kudos and comments, it really makes my day!


	4. Kissing Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer: Im gonna do what's called a pro gamer move:
> 
> *pegs two men, one dildo in each hand*
> 
> this chapter is just smut, folks, more dynamic play and hurt/comfort to follow

“Hands and knees, then?” She assumes laying on his back isn’t an option, and the bard seems to agree, nodding hastily and getting into position. He’s almost laying across her lap, but he supports his weight on his hands, leaving her some leg room and a nice view of his cock. 

With one man handled, Yennefer turns her attention to Geralt, who is watching with intent, and already rock hard. She crooks a finger, and he straightens, leaning tentatively on the bed at the same height as his master. She sees the longing look the two men share, and though she planned to have Geralt fuck his master’s face while she took care of the bard’s ass, the new idea she had seemed infinitely more interesting for all involved. She frees herself gracefully from under Jaskier, and guides both men so they are bent over beside each other, their hands intertwine over the bedspread, holding on tight, not fearful, but still intensely. 

“Go on, witcher, show your master how much you appreciate him.” Her words are a cool breeze, and Geralt relaxes into his partner like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He pulls the bard closer, and begins to greedily suck on his lips. The two are thoroughly enmeshed, and electricity flows through them. Their wet, hot kisses sound land sloppily, and Yennefer allows them a moment, drinking each other in. 

She steals one of Geralt’s hands. Breaking the tightly clenched fist, she guides the rough fingers to Jaskier’s hole, and commands the Witcher to stretch it. The bard moans deeper into his lover’s kiss, rocking back onto the fingers. 

Yennefer bites down on the Witcher’s shoulder, and he bucks wildly, eyes already blown with desire. She uses the butt of her whip to penetrate Geralt’s quivering ass, and he yelps, obviously not as eager as his master, so she slows, but leaves the whip, making him painfully aware of his position.

“Ready, little bird?” She pets Jaskier’s ass and gives him a warning slap. He wriggles.

“Yes, please, Yen.” 

“Good.” She purrs and smacks him again, pulling Geralt’s fingers out of the hole, replacing them with her favorite wooden toy. She places a manicured hand on the bard’s neck, twisting the skin and digging in cruelly with her nails. Between the pain on his neck and the pressure in his ass, Jaskier is trapped, at her mercy, writhing. 

She marks him well. Completely, filling her canvas with red and purple kisses while she thrusts the wood into his waiting ass. She waits until he is begging, waiting for release, then she withdraws suddenly. He whines, and she scratches his back again, tutting quietly. 

“I’ll take care of you soon enough, bard.” 

Then she pulls him to his feet, and sets her attention on the Witcher. Geralt is hard, and his forehead is dripping sweat. He’s obviously worked up from seeing his master dominated, and obviously still struggling with the foreign object in his ass. Yennefer removes the offending whip with a twist, humming approvingly at the audible pop it makes when released. 

“Lie on your back, Wolf.” And he complies. She ties his wrists above his head, leaving him exposed, and lightly nudges Jaskier in his direction. 

Jaskier is confused, he bends at the waist, intending to kiss his slave, but Yennefer pulls him back by the arm. 

“No no, pet. Face the other direction.”

Jaskier kneels over Geralt’s face, giving him what he’s sure is a novel and most surprising view.

The two men are bound there, made to provide release for the other as long as they can stand, and Yennefer provides sporadic encouragement, not withholding light strokes from her riding crop. 

It’s heaven, it’s new, it’s everything they never knew they wanted. It’s perfect submission many times over, and all three parties end the night with a healthy glow, not in the least bit ashamed of any of their actions.

“Well boys,” Yennefer says as they lounge side by side in the impossibly soft bed. “You know where to find me” 

Geralt shoots a look over the woman’s chest to his master, silently begging for more sessions with this woman, more play testing his limits. And soon.


	5. Releasing Master

When Geralt and the bard leave Rinde and the dungeons behind, they fall into a predictable rhythm, it’s not uncomfortable, it’s just what they had before, They earn their coin, they claim what they earn, they love. Simply, happily, together. It’s a partnership, they aren’t always sceneing, so they take care of each other. 

Geralt dislikes having sex while he’s on the hunt, and Jaskier must abstain for a few days before a gig. They’re both convinced their chastity makes them better, heightens their performance. So, they find other ways to be master and slave. 

Jaskier sets rules for the Witcher, to be obeyed even when the two are apart, he lays claim to the older man, and instructs him on what exactly he can and cannot touch. They spent many long nights negotiating, Geralt conceding masturbation privileges for the promise that Jaskier will stay away from alcohol, and Jaskier allowing for extra baths as rewards for using honorifics with the townsfolk.

“I am acting as your representation, I need you to keep your end of the deal. No one wants me to hail a stinky rude bastard as a hero”

“Toss a coin to your bastard” the Witcher smiles as he hums.

“See? It’s worse.”

Geralt has his chores, and Jaskier gently reminds him to keep the rules every so often, once even going as far to demand he apologize to an innkeeper. The apology must have come across insincerely, however, as the two were still promptly ousted from the location. They slept in the woods that night, and Geralt’s ass was awarded with some fine welts. 

“It’s not my fault the fat fuck wanted to prove a point!”

“Dear heart, if you didn’t call him a fat fuck to his face he wouldn’t have a point to prove”

“Humph.” Geralt protested, even as the firm hands tossed away the switch and began to rub chamomile onto the lovely bottom.

Geralt is happy, happier than a Witcher should be, he feels guilty sometimes, thinking about exactly how much training it would take to restore him to his peak. How much time he’s wasted retroactively, while his mind was on serving someone other than himself or his contractor. 

Vessimir’s voice haunted his dreams sometimes: “A Witcher is only as strong as his masks"

However, the stress and guilt affect him less than they would without Jaskier, if being with his perfect songbird, if being in love and wanting to provide is wrong, Geralt doesn’t want to be right. He’s so happy, he’s learning, he’s behaving, growing. He wears the praise his master gives him like flowers in his long white hair.

But then the wind grew cold. Winter had come unexpectedly early, and the pair had to confront their relationship much sooner than they thought. 

Geralt knew his master wouldn’t fare well living rough, especially during the winter. The bard’s extravagant wardrobe was made for anything but warmth, and the amount of coin he was accustomed to was nowhere near what a Witcher could make in the cold. He had always intended to let Jaskier leave before winter hit, he would encourage him to stay in the nicest town they stopped in, leaving him with scented oils as gifts, promising his return.

Jaskier had no idea of his pet’s plans, although he needed to return to his estate some time before the solstice, to keep up appearances, he had intended to be there for his slave, to care for him, and to let himself be cared for. He knew Geralt better than himself sometimes, and he knew that the Witcher needed him, needed submission, release, more often than he would express.

So, that first cold night, as the dew froze around their tents, and snowflakes formed threateningly in the air, Geralt made a fire. He was extra careful to stack the wood just so, maximizing both the warmth and the appearance of the fire. He was silent as he did so, contemplating the precision his master had taught him. While a Witcher was made to live rough, surviving with the very least necessary, Jaskier took care of him, letting him need, letting him take time, take more than he needed, take the effort to do something so it pleases him instead of just fulfilling a need. 

The fire complete, he laid out a small cushion beside what he had chosen to be his master’s log. He knelt, with hands delicately on his knees. He waited, not breaking position, until he heard a rustle in the tent. Then, with a quiet but insistent voice, the Witcher spoke. 

“Sir?”

Jaskier wasn’t completely surprised, he knew that submitting relieves stress in the Witcher, and he could tell that Geralt had been stressed for days, but the plea from his pet’s lips was new, different. He pressed further, only taking a half step towards the man that knelt facing away from him. 

“Yes, pet?”

“Will you…” he paused, voice thick with emotion, “will you sit with me?” 

Jaskier takes the obvious seat, slightly raised from his counterpart. He notes that the Witcher is purposefully avoiding eye contact, as he can’t usually keep from sneaking glances at the bard’s face. He pauses for a moment, almost extending a hand to tilt the strong chin towards his own, but he decides to cater to his slave, and let him speak unaided.

“Thank you. I wanted— hm, no. I needed, sorry sir I— ah, it’s getting to be winter soon, and I’m ready if you are.”

“Ready for what pet?” 

“If you need to leave, I’m ready to spend the winter alone.”

His master stills for a moment, and Geralt can’t bring himself to look at his face.

“Witcher, Geralt, my heart,” the young man crashes to his knees in front of his partner. “My heart, my love, is that what you want? Is that what you think I want?” He’s touching anything he can on the witcher, squeezing his broad shoulders, tenderly brushing his cheeks, running long, thin fingers through his white hair.

Of course not, Geralt thinks, But it must be done.

“I’ll go back to Kaer Morhen, and you can leave for Oxenfurt.”

“I thought it was up to me to decide what you can do.” He smiles even though his eyes are sad, trying to make his Witcher see. He doesn’t have to spend the winter by himself ever again.

“This isn’t.. Julian this isn’t a scene.” Although Geralt knows everything about him says otherwise, he can’t think of a way to convince him he’s serious.

“I’m not requesting this, I’m not asking permission, and I’m not submitting in this moment. I’m letting you know of my intentions, and respectfully letting you act on yours.”

“Okay, love, okay.” Jaskier feels the urge to shush the witcher, to pull his head into his chest and hold it there for a hug, to run his fingers through his hair, to comfort him. He refrains, stunned still at the seriousness, trying to be formal without being hurt.

“Okay, Geralt. Thank you. Can we travel together tomorrow? We’ll be going the same way for a while.”

“I would like that, sir. Thank you.”

“Of course, Geralt.” He’s not a pet right now, they are no longer in their roles, and Geralt does not get to decide that they are.

When the fire extinguishes, it finds Geralt meditating on his cushion, while Jaskier tosses fitfully in the tent. They don’t speak until they part ways the next evening. Geralt bows his head, and the bard plants a long, tender kiss. 

"Farewell."

"Safe travels."

Then the white wolf and roach tread one dirt path, and Dandelion, armed with his lute and his bag, walks the other.


	6. Without Master

Geralt is the first one to send a raven to Rinde.

The message is simple enough, time and place, with ample coin for travel and a poorly drawn seal.

Yennefer’s heart hurts for the witcher, and instead of travelling by horse, making a show of entering the gates of Kaer Morhen, she teleports to the woods outside of the great stone walls. She appears quickly, gracefully, armed with enough supplies to give the witcher what he needs.

When he meets her, he seems smaller. The collar around his neck hangs a little looser, and his eyes are dark. She reaches out to pet him, but he shys away.

“Alright then, Witcher,” her words are a cool breeze, lilacs and gooseberries fill his head and bring him deep into the moment. His mind follows the words from her lips to his forehead, and the sound flows through him to his feet, grounding him in the now. He is here. He is only here, he has always been here, and he will stay.

Then, it comes:

_**“Kneel.”** _

Geralt presents for her, it’s stiff and emotionless, but it’s following orders. His head is down, eyes fixed on the forest floor. He does realize how tight every muscle in him really is until a sharp nail drags itself on the underside of his jaw.

Yennefer places a thumb in the cleft of his chin, pulling his mouth open. She holds a strip of bitter fabric to his lips, _leather,_ and he bites down tentatively.

“We need to protect your teeth, pet. Your jaw has been clenched for so long.”

He hums softly against the gag, eyes rolling back in relief. He lifts his head, allowing her to softly sweep her fingers across his neck. “

You want this, pet? Missing the sweet caress of his fingers? Shall I sing you to sleep? Fuck you slowly, sweetly--”

He growls, thrashing against the gag, and interrupts her taunts.

“No. Yen.” the voice is too harsh, and he knows it. “Punishment. Please.”

Her fingers bend slightly, now harshly against the pulse on his neck, making him see black for a moment.

“Well, if that is what you wish.” Her chest feels heavy, as much as the mage is a sadist, she had intended to be merciful today, leaving the witcher to the safe space of surrender he obviously needs so much. She knows Jaskier is often rhapsodic about Geralt, and is tooth-achingly sweet, enabling his every whim. She had meant to fill that role today, but he asked.

“Yes, Miss. Please.” He’s almost teary as he squirms, better fitting the gag into his mouth. His eyes tell her everything she needs to know. Well, his eyes and the thought-reading spell she had cast

 _Make Me Beg._ It’s thunderously loud. Yennefer’s mask slips for only a moment, and she feels herself shudder, saddened and scared at the intensity of his thoughts. She had intended to be merciful today Geralt is all consumed by the mantra, and he repeats it over in a desperate plea to the universe, a need to repay the cosmic forces for the crimes he’s committed.

 _Make. Me. Beg._ Yennefer binds him in position, with a harsh warning to let neither his restraints or his gag slip. He nods in acknowledgement, but his mind is worlds away, waiting to be shocked back into his body with the coming pain.

 _Make. Me. Beg_. They both hear the thought again, louder still than before, and Yennefer cannot afford to take her time any longer. She pulls out her small wooden paddle. Usually she would pause to tap lightly on the flank in front of her, whispering praise and checking the color of her plaything. Especially with the bard, she would employ her favorite taunt, ‘sing for me’. But now, a man is suffering, she must take him in hand. She had intended to be merciful today. Instead, she bares Geralt unceremoniously, and begins to mark him.

The Witcher’s world narrows again. From his thoughts, to Kaer Morhen, to the forest, to right now. The pain is red, a dull ache, heating slowly to a fire. The constant strokes grow harder against him, and he is writhing against his will in the binds. His breathing is heavy, muffled by the leather in his mouth, but at least he is here. At least he is in pain.

She switches from the paddle to leather, spacing out the strokes on his back and legs, painting until the Witcher’s entire frame is pink and glistening with sweat. She enjoys seeing the hard muscles tense and flinch under her touch, but she can’t shake the feeling that the scene is wrong.

At what point does one revoke consent?

When is a submissive too submissive for their own good?

Wasn’t the point of a punishment to assuage guilt?

To show the trust between a master and a pet? To forgive?

“Geralt,” she brushes his hair away from his face, removing the gag. “Surely you’re down by now, pet. How much more do you need?”

A parade of images passes through both their minds simultaneously.

_Geralt tied to a tree, bound, pleading, with tear tracks watering the ground below him._

_Geralt’s blood freezing in the snow, a stark contrast of red against the white. His collar pressing against his skin, forming a purple ring around his neck._

_Teeth pulling at his nipples._

_A pointed shoe coming down quickly on his balls._

The man wants pain, he’s already resigned to it, ready in the restraints. Waiting.

Yennefer stands back, regarding him, more than scared at the dark places his mind had gone.

“Geralt,” she sighs, meeting his gaze, “I can’t-”

“If you won’t punish me, then you can leave” The harsh words bite worse than the wind. She had intended to be merciful, but at the end of the day, this is not her sub, and he can demand whatever he wants from her.

Geralt hears a soft woosh as she portals away. Only then, kneeling in the snow, does he start to sob into the leather glove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the rest of the story mapped out, But finals are this week so it might be a while before an update. Thank you for reading! I'm excited to complete the story and the reunite our boys!


	7. Missing Each Other

Kaer Morhen is cold. The Witcher is shocked at how much the foul weather affects him. It is cold, and the ground is hard. He is alone.

Geralt misses the simple life. More than just fighting, he misses release. He misses sacred moments shared with his bard in the early hours of the morning, the silence overtaking them both. He misses Jaskier’s hair glowing orange with the rising sun, a tousle of curls across a freckled forehead. Their tent was always messy, outfits and armor strewn about the floor, but it was theirs. It was good.

He misses the silent swims in the stream. The way the younger man’s body fit perfectly in his arms, the way the water rolled gracefully off his back, suspending both of them in timeless ecstacy. He misses being able to relax into something else, and just be held by the earth, knowing that everything was okay. The world was theirs. It was good.

He misses holding his love, the subtle touches of hands, lips on his neck, or a slight pinch on his ass where someone could see if they weren’t careful. He misses having strong arms around his own, giving up control. The way the bard would throw himself onto the witcher, tackling him for no reason other than exhibiting control, the desire to prove his loyalty, what and who he wanted. He wanted Jaskier, forever, always. What they had was good.

Slowly, the happy memories lose their color. Geralt feels the pain of losing Jaskier much more heavily than the joy of remembering. He paces around the high stone walls, muttering about nothing. Lambert and Eskel try to get him to hunt, but nothing improves his moods. During their pursuit of one particularly fast werewolf that had been stealing from them for days, Geralt cuts himself on his sword. It’s a stupid mistake that he had never made before, and he falls back, spitting, cursing, and unintentionally showing his brothers the collar around his neck.

Kaer Morhen is grey, and the near-isolation the other witchers force Geralt into doesn’t help. They can’t understand the need for a witcher to have a partner, let alone submit. There are whispered conversations in the hall that turn to shouting matches. The three witchers turn into a revolving cast, coming into the room with encouragement, questions, and anger.

Vessemir tries to understand, but confronting emotions is hard for him. He treats Geralt as a defective infant, weak and needing training. If he had his way, Geralt would go through the trials and mutations again. They both know it's not possible, but there is an unspoken wish that this could all be forgotten.

Eskel turns to humor. He makes jokes at both Geralt and Jaskier’s expense, and tries to make Geralt admit that their relationship is comparable to a barmaid with her farm boy of the night. He even goes so far to confess and recount his own sexual escapades, he can understand the need for sex, and even pain, but he will not understand whenever Geralt describes love. Their exchanges lead to lots of wordless stares. They are different now. That is okay, but uncomfortable.

Lambert is just mean. Broken words and hissing insults berate Geralt at every turn. He will not accept that his brother, a fellow wolf, could be this stupid. This selfish. Love? Do you jest? You know who we are, right? What we are meant to do? How could you entertain the idea of a relationship? How could you submit to anyone? How could you compromise yourself like this? Why are you not in charge?

Geralt stays in bed until Vessemir stops forcing him to drink healing potions, then he works even harder, hunting more, hunting alone. He has taken every word he hears to heart, and he wants to prove himself. He needs to prove he is still strong. He needs to take the pain.

When he writes to Yennefer, Geralt has already spent days laying in the snow, kneeling naked in the cold for some invisible force, only leaving when he notices his skin changing colors. His jaw is aching and sore from clenched teeth, biting back the words he wants to say to someone who is not there. His collar is loose, and it will not tighten anymore. It's too loose, it's not enough, it's too tight, too cold, too much. He has forgotten how to provide for himself, how to be a person, much less a witcher, and he hates himself for it. At night, he dreams only of pain. He craves it, needs it, deserves it.

Yennefer knows better than to give him what he wants. 

\------------------------------------

Oxenfurt is cold. Jaskier finds it strange that even in all this color and heat, he feels the wind ever sharper on his skin. All of his friends, his fellow troubadours gather around him. There is an intense sense of joy radiating around everyone there. He is happy, or he has every reason to be.

Valdo Marx makes an appearance, and the two exchange niceties. It's the least stressful encounter they've had together in a while. Still, Jaskier can find no reason to celebrate. The men and women constantly seem to have energy he no longer possesses, partying and singing songs of their tales until the wee hours of the morning. They are happy, and Jaskier is surrounded by color and light. 

Oxenfurt is fruitless, it proves to be a den of drunkards and thieves. They all ask for stories of the Butcher of Blaviken, they all want private performanced. They all want him. Jaskier has to pull himself out of an unwarranted kiss more than once. He misses when he could relax into this life, let the other bards pass him around like a bottle of ale. Or does he?

Jaskier misses love. Not the sloppy kisses or messy, hidden snogs of his youth. He misses love, authentic, heart-crushing love. The fact that whenever his Geralt entered a room his gaze was set. He misses that little smirk and the determined jaw. The way that they only ever looked for each other. When they were together, they were both safe, home was the other’s arms.

He misses the trust that they had together, when the bard would sit and brush the long white hair before him. He remembers dressing Geralt’s wounds, learning what his potions mean, learning how to care for a witcher, and about the mutations. 

He misses conversations that they hold in the dark. Hours after a scene when Geralt finds voice enough to confess. The strong voice speaks out into the night and holds weight, almost making time itself seem irrelevant, nonexistent, unnecessary. He misses the little hums throughout the day that sometimes cost hours to decipher, learning to speak to a witcher without words, without sounds. 

He misses his hands on the beast, choking, squeezing, pulling, teasing, taunting. Drawing tears from a man that has none, broken sobs of worship left unanswered, prayers falling like snow onto the ground. Just thinking about the sweet noises he could wring from the Witcher made him blush, and pondering the many ways he had blistered his skin made him ready to pen a book of sonnets. 

He misses the rituals they had, how he could strum his lute in peace most nights. He misses love. He misses being safe.

Jaskier returns to the Lettenhove estate well before the solstice. He needs to be away from the bacchanals at Oxenfurt. His mother receives him as warmly as she can, but they both know something is wrong with him. He spends time unpacking as slowly as he can, almost wishing that he won’t have to move in completely. He handles his fine doublets with the utmost care, and lovingly polishes his lute again and again. He tunes his instruments and shines his boots, and even is so bold as to hang up the implements he has collected from his travels, but he will not even look at one small bag in particular. That one is special. That one is for later. After he is settled, he takes up his old hobbies, flirting with the servants, touring the stables to see the horses, playing new tunes for the stones in his wall. He is restless, in need of release, but afraid to ask. He enjoys being able to have his own space, and takes full advantage of the staff. He wanders listlessly around his chambers, never lifting a finger except to play a song or two. 

One night, he breaks. He walks to the stables, supplied with carrots and sugar cubes, and sits. He talks to the horses as he would so often to Roach, inquiring about her day, her wishes, if Geralt misses him too. The servants discover him in the morning, hay in his hair, sleeping with a fist clenched around an old saddle bag.

He pretended he had been drunk, and retired to the estate to sleep the rest of it off. When he got back to his room, he bathed, and inspected the contents of the saddle bag he stole from Geralt.

There’s not much, a small undergarment, a few scrap pieces of parchment, and a small dagger, but it's the most of the witcher he’s seen in weeks, and he buries his face in the shirt. Here, in the smell, he is home. He is loved. He is safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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